


Loki's Birth

by Zorekryk



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zorekryk/pseuds/Zorekryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, simple tale told in the style of an epic.  Uses the Marvel characters and based on the movie canon, but with things shifted around a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loki's Birth

In the deepest corridors beneath the palace of Jötunheim, a small, cloaked figure walks the hall. Asgardian. Unseen, in the shadows, Laufey-prince draws his sword but waits. A warrior’s patience is his greatest asset, he waits until the figure is just past.

But he is noticed first, a sword flies out, barely blocked. Though he is thrown down he recovers, but the small Asgardian is fierce. Stronger than Laufey had thought; it costs him dearly. He gains only enough ground in their fight to pull the hood from this trespasser’s face.

It is Odin, the AllFather, son of Borr, King of Asgard.

His shock holds him only a moment, his claws at Odin’s neck as he holds him for a fatal blow. But the AllFather is too powerful, for even the prince of Jötunheim. Their cries and bellows echo in the deep chamber, and Laufey is thrown to the rocky ground. With open eyes, he awaits the death blow.

It does not come.

“Your submission or your life,” the AllFather growls atop the prince, in his face.

Though he wishes to deny the AllFather the satisfaction, his cowardice prevails. His hand is close to his own sword, Laufey’s final act should be to gut himself.

But it is not.

His silence has answered for him. It is no longer his choice. Laufey cannot speak the words; he pushes his own blade away in acceptance. He hears the AllFather’s grunt of victory, the clatter of his codpiece hitting the ground. Laufey sees the repugnant spear that will claim him immediately before it does. He grinds his sharp teeth. Odin’s sharp sword stays at his neck, it bites as he breathes. Laufey does not look at Odin; he refuses sensation.

Laufey does not leave until Odin ventures off to the deepest vault beneath the castle. He stands; his pause is brief. The prince takes up his sword but does not shout. He cannot.

In Asgard’s halls, Odin’s shouts ring throughout the feast as he hefts the stolen sword high. It glows in the warm, setting sun of the Eternal Realm. He boasts that he has taken a Jötunn prince; cheers and tankards of mead are raised to his victory.

His father’s house is full of war cries. The golden sword is gone, the sword by which countless Asgardian warriors have been slain. Without it they are weakened, but their resolve is hardened. The prince does not tell them what he has seen. His brothers vow to take a hundred Asgardian swords each as restitution. The king shall take a hundred eyes.

Laufey joins the fight when the first forces of Asgard attack. They are chased, rounded up, beaten like dogs. Many fall, but they do not surrender. They will not surrender. One by one his brothers, his kin, his clan, they fall.

It is not long before even the slight child within him rounds the muscles of Laufey’s belly, curving to hold the growing babe. He keeps with the fight until this day, and then he takes a forgotten road, hiding like an animal wounded. His brothers-in-arms believe Laufey dead. As he does himself.

It is loyal and fearsome Fárbauti who comes upon him, after much searching. Expecting wounds, he finds Laufey to be with child. A cave, keeping out the bitterest winds, is now Laufey’s home.

“Who has done this?” Fárbauti’s hands fly to his axe as he kneels besides his prince.

“It matters not.” Laufey does not turn, his words echo blunty.

“His skull will serve as fitful recompense.”

A tired smile turns Laufey’s mouth. “Fitting, but impossible.”

“Do not keep this from me, Laufey-prince.”

Laufey relents. He has not told. There are none who know, save the Other. It is no longer his choice; Fárbauti will never let him face a burden alone. But he will not explain. “Odin.”

Fárbauti’s hand clenches the axe handle. “You must eat.” He gives Laufey the pouch he carries.

There are many visits, the small breaks in the solitude as persistent Fárbauti brings food to his desolate prince.

The birth of the tiny child brings no comfort. Laufey will not keep him. He is first saved by Fárbauti, who holds out the small, crying infant.

“Mark him. Name him. Claim him as your own. Kill him then if you no longer wish to bear your flesh.”

Fárbauti leaves Laufey with his newborn son. The forgotten prince pulls the small knife from his pocket, and begins the small cuts that will raise and form familiar markings. The soft skin of the baby’s head is thick and does not bleed, and Loki does not cry. Only the deepest part of the marking, in the circle that names his clan, brings a small squeal and drop of blood.

Fárbauti does not return for a day. As Laufey glances at his sword his thoughts no longer turn to oblivion. He feels nothing but the cold.

It is the next morning that the shadow of his expected guest arrives, heavy and lingering before he enters, no longer his quick and forceful presence. He sits by Laufey, touching the sleeping babe’s head.

“Your father is dead.”

Laufey does not speak. His brothers are also gone, murdered in war.

“Slain by Odin.”

Laufey weeps, holding the child he knows he cannot keep to his breast.

 

In silence, Laufey and Fárbauti walk the long half-day to the ruins of the once great palace of Jötunheim. In truth, all they pass are ruins, that which is not the slain bodies of their brothers or foes, or the broken armour and axes that could no longer protect them.

As they arrive they are greeted by the remnants of the Last Who Stood, fighting amongst each other. The king is dead, his sons are slain. Jötunheim has no regent, no orders.

“Cease this!” calls Fárbauti, his booming voice reaching as it has in his strongest war cry. They have lost so much, they must stop fighting each other.

“The king and his sons are dead!” The fighting does not cease.

“Laufey lives!” Fárbauti roars in response, the only words that bring end to the combat that might have decided their next king.

“Prove this, Fárbauti!” comes a call from one who had won many such fights, as one behind him throws down his axe in early defeat. Not far away Odin watches, the fiercest of his still standing warriors standing at constant attention behind him. His wife, slight and bundled in many furs, stands at his side.

Fárbauti sneers, the grunt barely heard as it evaporates into chilled light blue mist. From behind him walks Laufey, his shoulders squared.

The son of his father’s brother bows, “You were absent from battle, Laufey-king,” the silent accusations ringing in the brevity of the gesture.

“I was injured,” is all Laufey answers, never glancing at him. He stands tall as he walks, ready to bear his father’s burden, though his red eyes are dead as he approaches Odin AllFather.

Odin does not gloat or smile in victory, for he is weary. There is only the slight edge of malice in his voice as he watches Laufey approach.

“Such a strange injury, to _leave_ your body without a mark.”

Laufey shows him no weakness. “What are your terms, AllFather?” Though his voice is quiet, crushed, it rumbles.

Frigga knows then. In her mind she can hear a baby’s cries, a baby alone and starving. A baby whose cries no one else can or will hear. She knows what she must do.

She starts on her journey, the faint cries of a baby in her head that only she hears--her connection to the newly born all that points her way in this foreign, devastated land of ice. She knows not any paths or allies that might help her, only her silver shortsword for protection.

A snarl stops her on the beaten path she finds, and Frigga is accosted by a large wolf, its blanched fur encrusted with crystals of ice. She draws her sword, but she is slight and not a warrior, despite her strength and powers. The babe’s cries continue; this wolf is also starving, another victim of the long conflict. She circles, tricking the wolf--he lunges, she falls to the ground before the blow can connect. His own force sends him over the path’s edge, to the endless void below.

Her day’s journey nears its end; the cries stop. Frigga, Queen of Asgard, knows she must hurry if she is to save this lost child. She sees the light at the cave’s door, the last dying embers of the fire Laufey set for his newborn son. She climbs the steep path, fighting for purchase, desperately making her way. She arrives, and sees the small baby near the fire, blue, but not from the cold.

Without hesitation she reaches for him, picking him up and touching him, his skin turning pink from her touch alone. Though surprised she wastes not a minute, the babe is so near death. She suckles Loki, cleans him, wraps him back in his blanket to keep him warm. She and the baby both rest, as her journey was long.

As she returns, two frost giants bar her way. She confirms that there is peace between them and they walk her back to the Asgardian camp in Jötunheim. She goes to Odin, who asks where she has been.

“I went to find something you lost in your carelessness.” She opens her large coat to reveal the sleeping Loki.

“What have you done? Where--”

“He had been abandoned. He will not be missed, as he was left to die in the cold.”

“As well he should have! He will find no sympathy here.”

“He is your son, Odin!”

“I have no claim on him.”

“Very well.” Frigga wraps Loki back up in her coat to keep him warm. “I shall claim him as my son. You may do as you wish.” She walks away, and Odin knows what he must do.

It is no longer his choice.


End file.
